


A Better Valentine's Day

by GTRWTW



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cooking, F/M, Fluff, Gift Giving, Post-Canon, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fic Exchange, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29310720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GTRWTW/pseuds/GTRWTW
Summary: It's Valentine's Day 2015 and Robin plans the perfect evening.From a prompt by Lulaisakitten: "Cormoran and Robin are a new couple, and Robin spends a long time planning the perfect first Valentine’s, but anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.."Also shout out to pools_of_venetianblue who spoke with Ilsa's voice in this fic 🤣
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 16
Kudos: 47
Collections: Cormoran Strike Valentine’s Day 2021 Prompt Meme Fun





	A Better Valentine's Day

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [LulaIsAKitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten) in the [Cormoran_Strike_Valentines_Day_2021_Prompt_Meme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Cormoran_Strike_Valentines_Day_2021_Prompt_Meme) collection. 



Robin threw an arm across her bed, grabbed her phone, and stopped the shrill squawking of her alarm before it could wake Max. Rolling groggily onto her side, she checked for messages and scanned the day's weather forecast. She wondered when she'd last managed eight solid hours of sleep. Tonight's paltry five hadn't quite restored to her the level of energy and enthusiasm she might have been expected to muster on the first February the fourteenth of her new relationship.

As she showered and dressed, Robin tried to rally herself. It wasn't as though her partner was the kind of man to set much store by a day like Valentine's Day. He probably won't remember, she told herself bluntly. Nevertheless, he was coming over for dinner, and Robin hadn't been able to help herself planning the perfect evening. 

While it may not have mattered much to Strike, Robin had to admit it mattered to her. Robin had associations with Valentine's Day going back more than a decade; she remembered cutesy gifts, trinkets plastered with hearts and glitter, generic pink things that said nothing about the giver or recipient other than that the giver had managed to find the 'Valentine's gifts' aisle in their nearest Tesco. Robin didn't object to any of these things in principle, and she recognised the kindness in giving a gift at all, but she had often had the fleeting thought that a partner who properly knew her would know that she would prefer almost anything else to a stuffed animal wearing a collar that said "I wuff you". 

Robin left the flat shortly after 7am, heading for Shoreditch and the object of the day's attention: the free-spirited younger sister of a wealthy investment banker. Robin hoped the sister would be careless enough to lead Robin to the man their client believed to have stolen vast sums from the family and, perhaps more importantly, to have wormed his way into his young sister's affections. Robin had allowed a generous window of time for her day's surveillance, aiming to return home at four in the afternoon, but she realised as she got on the Tube that she'd forgotten to buy the wine that paired with her planned meal. Grimacing, she mentally factored a trip to the supermarket into her journey home.

***

Strike spent the morning in the office, completing tedious paperwork and transcribing notes into various files. He drank several cups of tea and smoked intermittently, shaking his head at his continued inability to kick the habit he'd acquired in the months following the amputation of his right foot. He'd enjoyed an occasional cigarette before then, but it was only when his days were consumed by physiotherapy and rehabilitation that smoking had become his third crutch. He had told himself that it was a choice, and he liked smoking, and he could give it up any time he chose. But he'd been forced to admit, over a year later, that he'd become just another addict lining the pockets of the tobacco companies with his twenty-a-day habit. 

Making a spur of the moment decision, he grabbed the mobile on his desk and dialled. Continuing to rake through his notes while the phone rang, Strike jumped when the voice in his ear was not the one he'd expected.

"Cormoran Blue Strike, if you have called to ask me what you can get Robin for Valentine's Day, I am coming over there and -"

"Ilsa, calm the fuck down," interrupted Strike. "I've already bought Robin something and wrapped it. I'm looking at it right now."

It was true; something that could be only loosely described as a package sat on his desk, its pink paper protruding at various angles. Try as he might, Strike had been unable to force the wrapping paper to fold in neat, perpendicular lines. He had almost given up, but Robin's face had shone in his mind's eye and persuaded him to finish the job.

"Bloody hell, Oggy," said Ilsa. Strike noted with amusement the return to his nickname, now that his Valentine's conduct had been deemed acceptable to her.

"Anyway, I didn't phone you, did I? Where's Nick?"

"Charming, as bloody usual," replied Ilsa, but Strike recognised her amused tone. "He's here, just coming out of the shower."

Strike heard a few words exchanged between the couple as Ilsa handed the phone over.

"All right, Oggy, mate?"

"Yeah, fine, thanks. Wondered if you had a minute. Need some… advice." A stunned silence fell, but then Nick recovered himself.

"Yeah, course. What's up?"

***

Robin ran flat-out across the platform and up the stairs, the carrier bag in her hand swinging wildly. A dithering target, a nonexistent bus and a delay on the District line meant that, by her own schedule, she was already nearly two hours late. She darted past a dawdling couple and swung out onto the street, relieved that she'd managed to navigate the journey at breakneck speed without actually breaking her neck. But as she stepped around a chihuahua that was waiting patiently for its owner to hang up her phone, Robin tripped; hair flying, one arm thrown out, she smacked into the hard concrete. The chihuahua eyed her suspiciously, and its oblivious owner moved away, still gabbling loudly into her mobile.

Robin felt like crying. Pain shot through her wrist and hip, but the humiliation hurt more than the grazes; a few people peered at her with the dispassionate interest of capital-dwellers who had truly seen every sight possible. They probably thought she was drunk, or high; only one young businessman in a pinstriped suit actually offered to help. Robin held him off with an outstretched hand and a perfunctory smile, grabbing her carrier bag and getting slowly to her feet. The man retreated and Robin registered the red liquid dripping down the sides of the bag; her carefully selected bottle of Malbec had smashed. A crimson puddle expanded across the pavement, and Robin set off walking once more, stuffing the now useless bag of broken glass in a bin as she headed home.

***

Strike walked up the short flight of steps to Robin's front door. His rucksack banged uncomfortably against his back, and he was eager to enjoy the comfortable sofa and the smell of Robin's cooking, which he hadn't sampled yet but which he was certain would be stellar. He hadn't yet found something Robin did badly. As he raised a fist to knock, the door swung open and Robin stood there, her hair loose and tumbling around her shoulders, a look of anguish on her face.

"What -" began Strike, his fist still hanging absurdly in the air.

"You're early," Robin exclaimed. Strike checked his watch; it was exactly 7pm.

"I'm right on time."

"But it's you. I thought you'd be at least half an hour late," she said, as though she were explaining something very simple.

"What's wrong with me being on time?"

"Well, look at me."

Strike's eyes swept down Robin's body. She was wearing leggings and a baggy t-shirt that said 'Give Peas a Chance'. Strike laughed, and then stopped abruptly at the scowl on her face. 

"You look… lovely."

"Give me a break."

"Look, are you going to let me in, or what?"

Robin's lips twitched up, and she stepped back to let him inside the flat. Closing the door behind him and following Robin up the stairs, Strike reflected that Robin really did look lovely; she looked soft and relaxed. He hoped she wouldn't disappear into her bedroom to don clothes and makeup that would reduce her comfort in a misplaced effort to increase his; he spent a few minutes pondering how to convey this to her without sounding like he didn't appreciate her efforts.

Strike discarded his coat as Robin handed him a beer, prattling about the fall and the smashed bottle in explanation of the fact that she now had no wine to accompany the steak she was going to cook. Her voice was higher than usual. Strike reached across for her hand. 

"How long will the food take?"

Robin thought about it. "I'm reverse searing the steak, and then there's the potatoes… Probably about half an hour."

"Then we've got time to just chill out for a minute." He brushed his thumb across the back of her hand, and Robin looked into his eyes. Her expression softened slightly and she leant back into the sofa, beer in hand, in an almost convincing display of ease. Strike chuckled.

"What's reverse searing?"

"I looked it up on YouTube. You cook the steak in the oven first, and then sear it in a pan afterwards. It's supposed to cook more evenly and dry out the edges so you get a better sear."

"Can't say I've ever tried it," mused Strike, but then he hastened to add, "but I'm sure it'll be great."

Robin finally smiled, and Strike was sure it was because she knew he felt out of his depth. 

"You're… hurrier than usual," he said tentatively.

"Hurrier?" Robin laughed.

"Yeah. I couldn't think of an actual word to describe it."

"Do you know what a hurrier is?"

"Someone who hurries?"

"Well, yeah," agreed Robin, smiling, "but not just that. Masham was a mining town, a long time ago. Hurriers were women and children employed to carry coal from the face to the surface."

"Well, my description fits, then. Although you're carting round beer and food, not coal," joked Strike.

"I just wanted today to be…" Robin trailed off, embarrassed. Strike was looking at her with an amused grin on his face.

"It's just a day, Robin. There's another one tomorrow. And one after that."

"I know that," she muttered.

Strike just stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He reached over for his rucksack and pulled out the pink package, grimacing as Robin saw it. She started to laugh, and he suddenly didn't feel so bad about the shoddy wrapping.

"Well, even though it's just another day, I thought you might like this," he said, handing it over. Robin smiled shyly and murmured her thanks, already reaching behind the sofa. She produced a wide, flat box wrapped in blue and handed it to Strike, who took it with a smile. For an awkward second they sat like eager children, gifts on their laps, waiting for permission. Strike nodded at Robin, inviting her to go first.

Robin pulled at one corner of the pink paper; the whole thing unravelled in her hands until she was left holding a small plant pot with a cardboard sleeve, a paper envelope of seeds taped to the bottom. She read the label and looked at him quizzically.

"Basil?"

"Well, yeah," said Strike. Robin continued to look at him.

"You don't want flowers, but I know you like looking after things. Looking after people." He paused while the memory of the previous Valentine's Day swam in his mind, along with the image of Robin's face as she told him she had felt obliged to smooth over the ripples he had caused. "I thought this would be an outlet for it, and you can just let other people get on with it for a change. And you can let me…" The unsaid words  _ look after you _ hung briefly in the air. "And, you know, it's practical. You can use it."

Robin felt a hard lump in her throat. She tried to speak around it. "I didn't think you were one for symbolism," she joked.

"I want to show you something, too," Strike began, and his face started to turn red. Robin sat up straighter, intrigued. "It's not a present, but it's something you've said you wanted." Robin said nothing, but waited patiently. 

Strike responded by beginning to undo his shirt, watching her eyes as he did so. Robin's gaze locked onto his, and she felt a now-familiar swoop of heat as his chest was slowly revealed, button by button. 

"It's not what you think, although I do like your thinking," quipped Strike.

"How do you know what I'm thinking?" 

Strike raised an eyebrow, and Robin breathed out a laugh. She was ridiculously transparent. Strike shrugged an arm out of its sleeve and pivoted to show her. There was a beige patch on his upper arm. Robin clapped a hand to her mouth.

"Spoke to Nick today, and he reckons this is the easiest way, although he recommends finding something to do with my hands too." Strike's eyebrow quirked up again, and Robin laughed. But her expression was sad, and Strike was plunged back into that feeling of being out of his depth.

"I thought you'd be happy about it," he murmured.

"I am! I'm really happy for you," Robin replied. "I'm just… I'm tired. Didn't get much sleep last night. Anyway, open your present." She had a resigned look on her face. Strike kept watching her as he peeled away the blue paper, revealing a pale wooden box: inside was a neat row of Dominican cigars.

Strike looked at Robin for a beat, and then burst out laughing. Robin smiled at his good humour but could not muster a laugh; she shook her head regretfully. Strike leaned in and kissed her sweetly.

"Thank you," he said. "Really, it's very thoughtful."

"Just my luck," she said breezily, and stood. She headed for the kitchen before Strike could do anything else, and he remained on the sofa, wishing he knew the right thing to say.

***

Robin bustled around the kitchen, trying to pull herself out of the mood that was threatening to sink her. She loved that Strike had begun the process of quitting smoking, and her gift seemed silly now that she recalled the conversation wherein she'd admitted to him that she would be happy if he broke the habit. And worse, Strike had given her a gift that was silly in the best way; small and symbolic, a little funny. She would have felt better if he hadn't given her a gift at all; at least then she wouldn't feel so guilty.

She threw mushrooms and onions into the skillet with the pre-seasoned steaks, added a few sprigs of thyme, and slid the whole thing into the oven. Her eyes slid across to the bottle of gin on the counter, and she contemplated it briefly before pouring herself a generous measure. She called out to Strike to offer him the same, and his incredulous 'no' made her laugh under her breath.

Robin rejoined him on the sofa, and Strike's arm fell across her shoulders the second she came within reach. She looked up at him quizzically, but his face was turned away, staring into the middle distance. She settled into the crook of his shoulder, sipping her gin; she felt his fingers start to trace slow patterns on her arm, and she smiled at the tingles that suffused her skin. Four months, and each touch still felt like the first. She closed her eyes.

"Relax, Robin," he whispered.

Robin felt warmth pass through her in a gentle roll, like the sun emerging from clouds. She basked in it, breathed it in; and when his head turned and his lips touched hers, she sank willingly into his kiss.

His scent invaded, and his big hand cupped the back of her head as he deepened the kiss, his cool tongue dipping into her mouth. Robin sighed softly as his other hand brushed up her arm and came to rest on her collarbone, stroking lightly. His fingers trailed up the side of her neck and her breath caught; she felt an inexplicable urge to cough, but she tamped it down. Strike shifted closer. Robin thrilled at the urgency as his hands both weaved into her hair and his mouth picked up the pace.

Robin's senses felt confused; Strike's lavender cologne mingled with her own perfume and a sharp note that she supposed was a cleaning product that Max must have used. It was difficult to think straight with Strike's mouth on hers, his hands now grazing her thighs, his body pressed against her so that she could almost feel his heartbeat. She felt the need to cough again. She told herself sternly to relax.

"Robin," he murmured.

"Yes," she replied, her voice husky, her throat raw.

"Can you smell burning?" 

Robin raised her head.

_"Shit!"_

With an agility Robin wouldn't have expected, Strike leapt up and dashed for the kitchen, which was rapidly filling with smoke. She began to follow, but Strike bellowed at her to stay put. He grabbed a tea towel from the counter, wrenched open the oven door, and pulled out an acrid black mess that was once a frying pan. He dropped it in the sink and looked up at Robin.

"I used the wrong pan," she said weakly.

"What?"

"I was supposed to use the cast-iron skill-"

But her words were cut off by a deafening, shrill beeping from the smoke alarm. Robin looked stricken; she pictured angry neighbours banging on the door, or concerned ones calling the fire brigade; she saw her own anxious face apologising over and again to a disapproving firefighter.

"Take the fucking battery out!" called Strike over the din.

"Right," Robin muttered. Strike's words jolted her into action; she jumped up to sit on the kitchen counter and then slowly stood on it. Reaching over for the alarm, ignoring Strike's muttered instruction to be careful, she yanked the cover off and pulled out the battery. The flat was quiet once more, and Robin climbed down from the counter, shakily placing the battery next to the ruined pan.

"Well, at least -" Strike began.

"Don't! I have fucked  _ everything _ up today," exclaimed Robin.

Strike looked at her for a moment, and then started to laugh. Robin watched as he gained momentum, sheer joy on his face as he was racked with proper belly laughs, and soon she couldn't help but join in.

"Robin," said Strike, striding purposefully around the kitchen counter, "I've got you and I've got beer. Steak would have been a bonus, but it's still the best Valentine's Day I've ever had." He scooped Robin into his arms, still chuckling. She rested her cheek on his chest, laughing reluctantly. She looked up at him.

"At least it was better than last year," she said wickedly, and his answering grin made her feel, she had to admit, just a little bit better.


End file.
